


The Work of Shadows

by genmitsu



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Death, Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Not a Deathfic, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 19:23:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 10,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16604036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genmitsu/pseuds/genmitsu
Summary: Written in the course of a self-imposed Fictober challenge where I wanted to try my hand at short stories. Instead, it grew into a non-linear single story and it reads too weird as a single thing, so... 31 chapters of varying length, according to the number of October days. Sorry about that XD---The underlying problems in Jim and Oswald's relationship manifest in a strange way, affecting all of Gotham and prompting them to give their all to save the city - and each other.





	1. Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotta apologize in advance for this story sometimes being weirder than it had to be. Some of the keywords were more confining than the rest.

 

Jim looks everything over. His backpack contains things that would let him last a while - spare t-shirts, a sweater, several pairs of socks, matches, canned food and a handful of granola bars. The blanket roll. The first aid kit that he wishes he wouldn’t have to use. The flasks he doesn’t _want_ to use but is too pragmatic to leave. He fills the water bottle to the brim but he’d be dependent on the water sources around. Jim scowls. That’s not gonna be a problem. The key he puts on a string and around his neck. He’s not about to risk losing it, not now.

Jim tsks. He forgot to put the knife in. The darn thing keeps eluding him, as if on purpose. Jim takes it in his hands, opens the sheath to look at the blade. It gleams slightly despite poor lighting. Still the same, as if mocking Jim, taunting him. Still. He puts it back in the sheath and hangs it on his belt. Better keep it close, for various reasons.

He puts the backpack on, adjusting it carefully. It sucks setting out in the twilight. It sucks having to do this. This plan, in all honesty, sucks big time.

Jim squares his shoulders and steps outside. He’s going through with it anyway.

 

 


	2. Cage

 

Bars so cold they feel greasy. Iron, black and twisted, covered with tiny barbs not unlike rose thorns. This whole thing is a parody, a twisted joke on the rose bush, a tangle of wrought rods and bars with barely a space between them to fit your hand. A rose bush in winter, and just as black and cold.

The inside doesn’t shield a rose. Instead it hides - contains? - something smoky and dark, a billowing shape that should’ve been able to seep out but doesn’t. It roils and whispers inside the cage, making strange sounds, almost humming with intensity. The outside of the shape is almost transparent, but the closer it gets to the center, the more dark it becomes, until it’s finally black as winter night.

It keeps whispering and moving, trying fruitlessly to escape. It was different once. Not something amorphous like this, but solid. It was… human, once. Now it doesn’t remember its name.

There’s a different name in its memory, the one it could never forget, bright as a star.

It keeps calling it out.

 

 


	3. Goat

 

Jim’s been on the road for three days when the goat started following him. It just somehow showed up, kind of dirty-grey, with weird orange eyes and big black horns. Jim was wary, actually, because… goats, right? Who wants getting headbutted by a goat? And why was it there, of all things, in the middle of literal nowhere with no homes for miles?

Jim thought it would wander off after a while. It’s not like Jim is feeding it. What do goats even eat? Except, you know, grazing on grass or something. The goat doesn’t demand anything though. It just follows Jim while he walks, sometimes prancing around, sometimes trailing behind him. Sometimes Jim talks to it. The goat tilts its horned head as if it really listens to him.

At nights the goat sleeps next to him, and Jim is still wary but he doesn’t mind the extra warmth. The nights are chilly here. And this whole thing sucks a lot less with a friend, even if the friend is a suspicious weird animal.

The goat never stays close to Jim’s right side, where the knife is.

 

 


	4. Dead Trees

 

Jim comes to the dead grove late in the afternoon, when everything is painted golden and shadows grow deeper. It looks almost inviting, except there’s something eerie about it as well, with trees being so silent, their black branches reaching out over the path. He doesn’t like the look of the grove one bit.

Jim even takes a break to check if he hasn’t steered from the right direction. This place, no, a place  _ like  _ this shouldn’t have appeared before him so soon. Was he making a better time than he anticipated? Was it something else? Was  _ it _ spreading out faster? Everything around him is so warped he shouldn’t really be surprised.

But it’s not like he can do anything. The only way is through the grove and that means he has to go in. So Jim takes the couple of flasks out and puts them in his pocket, closer. Then he squares his shoulders and walks inside.

The first steps are so easy, it’s like he’s worked himself up for nothing. Then it starts to get darker. Then the shadows creep closer. The branches rustle. They whisper.

Jim runs.

They reach out for him, clinging to him, trying to trip him. The knife hums at his side maliciously, resonating with their whispers. Jim grits his teeth. He can’t stop. He has to make it. There’s the exit from the grove not far from here, he can see it, but the branches grow aggressive, lashing at his face, tearing up his clothes. They try to encircle him, wind around him, lock him in a cage of wood and darkness and squeeze him until he cannot take another breath. It’s almost like a wall in front of him, thorny black wall of branches cutting him off from going further, from reaching…

Fuck.

Jim doesn’t like it. He never wanted to use it. But if the choice is between using it and failing, or worse, giving in to-- he knows it’s not even a choice at all.

He reaches into his pocket for the flasks, but before that, the goat comes running from behind him with a low bleat, and rams hard into the wall. It cracks, and the goat jumps back and rams it again, and again, until it breaks enough for Jim to push through. They run like hell towards the exit, it getting closer and closer with every step.

The light almost feels too bright.

 

 


	5. Reckoning

 

Oswald walks through the gates with his head held high even though he’s feeling far from confident. This is a gamble, all of it, and he knows his gambles, but the stakes on this one are particularly high, and his only chance at survival is out of his hands now, quite literally, left far away in the palm of… dare he hope?

No matter. He’s an expert on dangerous gambles and his timing couldn’t be better. It will work out.

The streets are not empty and all eyes are on him. They part for him, making way, almost driving him in the desired direction and they end up following him silently. The silence is oppressing, too, urging him on, further, further, if only to leave it behind. The shuffle of the steps behind him is like a menacing melody, only broken by his own uneven clicking of heels. He will not run.

Oswald looks only in front of him. The gray stones of the streets are uneven, their lines unsure, as if not quite real. Are they? He doesn’t care. It’s not like it would change anything. He knows he’s in the right place when the castle doors open up for him, admitting only him inside and leaving the crowd still shuffling behind him. The corridors are empty. It’s drab for a castle, and Oswald expected something with a little bit more flair, given everything. He scoffs. A dilettante, at best, really.

Of course the throne room has the most ornate and opulent throne, despite the fact that its occupant is everything but. Some king. He doesn’t even look like the master of his space, which makes Oswald smirk.

“You’ve come,” the king says, stating the obvious with weird glee.

“I have,” Oswald replies. No need to prolong it, anyway. “Satisfied?”

“Hm,” he approaches Oswald, circling around him like a shark, “I would’ve preferred you begging.”

“We can’t all get what we want,” Oswald retorts.

“True,” the king agrees easily, hanging his head. “I’ll have to be content with just getting you.” He stands in front of Oswald, smirking. “You do know your coming here won’t stop me from getting him as well? It’s just a matter of time.”

Then there’s a flash of silver in his hand, a sharp pain, but the only thing Oswald sees is Jim’s eyes, looking at him in concern, his brows furrowed.

You’re going to have wrinkles there, Oswald thinks warmly before everything goes dark.

 

 


	6. Tentacles

 

When he turns in for the night, Jim’s sleep is restless. It always is, here, but tonight it’s especially so. There are dreams he can’t shake off, that keep waking him up but not entirely, so he dozes back into that murk that promises no respite, no rest. The warmth by his side doesn’t alleviate it either, because it’s not the right one.

Everything about this is not right. He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be here at all. It’s not his place. It’s not his domain, not his depth. The darkness creeps closer, almost physical, he can feel it, its cold tentacles reaching out for him, wanting to drag him away. Wanting him to stop. Wanting him to give up.

The thought sparks Jim up even in this dream. Give up? Never! Not after what they’ve shared. And even without it, could he ever truly give up on him? Could he ever forget, could he ever ignore him? Giving up is not an option, not for him.

This sureness gives him a power in his dreams. His hands glow, and the dark tentacles shy away, scuttling, until they’re just a ball of inky threads, until they roll away, leaving him finally alone.

His breath is even.

 

 


	7. Artefacts

 

Jim felt eerily calm when they sat together on that stone bench in the garden, still warm from the sun, now declining behind the horizon, and Oswald was going over the list. The book in his hands had a lot of stickers in it, its margins filled with notes. Poisons, herbs, crystals, all that mumbo-jumbo. It didn’t sit well with Jim, but Oswald wanted to have backup, so he had to do his part as well. But then, in that last halcyon evening, he just wanted them to stay as close to each other as possible.

He looked at Oswald’s profile caressed by the setting sun, appreciating his cheekbones, slightly flushed from exertion and excitement. Jim smiled. Trust Oswald to get excited over something deadly like this.

“Jim? Are you listening?”

“Yeah,” he said, trying to focus on Oswald’s words, not the way his hair looked so soft and pretty. “The key, you said?”

“Yes. Keep it close,” Oswald said firmly. “It’s one of a kind and you won’t be able to get in without it.”

“Got it,” Jim nodded. The key was their lucky break in all of this, really. One of the really few. The other artefact though... “Oswald,” he reached out for his cheek, unable to hold back any longer and revelled at the skin being so soft and warm under his fingertips. “Do we really have to use the knife?”

“Yes, Jim,” Oswald said, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch. “It’s inevitable. It’s the one point that we cannot ever change.”

“I hate this,” Jim murmured, bringing Oswald closer and kissing him, languidly, as if they had all the time in the world. Oswald’s lips were warm against his, answering him with passion that betrayed his real feelings and Jim groaned because how could he ever go along with that? How could he ever not?

He hates that knife with every bit of his soul.

 

 


	8. Warehouse

 

Dim light. Dust motes glittered slightly in the air when they caught those last bits of sunlight. It was quiet. Jim leaned against the crate, giving his legs a chance to rest. He was not here for that, but he’d take any chance for relaxation and if it meant having to wait in an empty warehouse for shit to go down, well. He’d take that too.

Steps. Jim sighed. Of course his peace wouldn’t last. But there was something different, something unexpected. The sound of steps meant definitely just one person, and he realized who that was even without seeing him. After all, there’s no mistaking that rhythm.

“Oswald.”

“Hello, Jim,” he said, smiling at him as he approached, impeccable as always in his dark suit.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, but you know, Jim. I’m meeting a potential gun dealer,” Oswald tilted his head. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Alone?” Jim raised his eyebrows dubiously.

“Yes.” Oswald leaned on the crate next to Jim, facing another way. Their shoulders almost touched over the corner. Somehow, when Jim didn’t see Oswald’s face, it made him aware of his presence even more.

It was quiet once again. Jim focused on the other man’s breath, calming down. His own was syncing with it somehow, getting slower, deeper. Calm of the moment seeped into his core again.

He heard the sound of a match being struck and tensed up, but it was soon followed by an inhale, exhale, and cigarette smoke. Slow. Leisurely.

“You smoke?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Huh. I didn’t think that was your vice.”

“It’s not like we have to only have one, Jim,” Oswald replied with a smile warming his voice.

The smoke should’ve been irritating. Annoying. Like the man next to him. Instead, it was neither. Not the smoke. Not the man.

“He’s not coming, is he?”

“No, Jim.”

“Why did you?”

“Do I need a reason to see an old friend?” Oswald asked in turn, taking another drag and pausing before exhaling.

“And yet you’re not even looking at me,” Jim let out a chuckle before rounding the corner and standing in front of Oswald as he met his eyes, bright as electric sparks and just as dangerous. The cigarette was in Oswald’s mouth, between his lips, and the tip burned brightly when he took a surprised breath in. 

“Don’t hog this to yourself,” Jim murmured, taking the cigarette and a drag of his own. It felt hot. Oswald’s lips parted as he watched Jim smoke.

“Do you need another vice, Jim?” he asked finally, almost teasing, almost flirty, except the fake levity was betrayed by the intensity of his gaze.

“I think I might,” Jim said as he closed the distance between them. “Are you up for it?”

“Yeah,” Oswald replied and leaned forward, brushing his lips over Jim’s. “Gladly.”

 

 


	9. Breathe

 

The first time it manifested for real they weren’t ready. It’s difficult to be ready for something like this, but still. They weren’t.

It resulted in mad scrambling and punches being exchanged, in shouting and mistaken ingredients and it was, in hindsight, an ungodly mess. They did manage to drive it away, make it shrink, make it smaller, but its return was only a matter of time.

Jim trained vigorously, throwing himself into it. Oswald couldn’t help thinking that was an attempt to escape all of that, maybe not consciously, but it still kind of hurt. Except Jim still came to him after, with kisses and sweetness and all was good for a while. Maybe it wasn’t their fault after all… Maybe it was something else.

It came again. It was bigger. It was even more malicious, and, what’s worse, it  _ spoke.  _ It brought out the things they didn’t want to voice, to hear, even think. The words hung in the air, thick like smoke and just as obscuring.

Jim launched at it, spurred into it by the desire to shut the damn thing  _ up,  _ seeing red and he couldn’t see the blow, not like this, and it struck him full-force, sending him flying. The rage that filled Oswald overflowed at the sight, erupting, a furious and murderous impulse bigger than him, bigger than his target, radiating outward and directed onto it with everything that Oswald had. It shrieked and hurried away, genuinely scared for its life, and Oswald could’ve laughed about it but he hurried to Jim’s side, all else forgotten.

He was unmoving, pale, blood trickled down his forehead, but he was alive. Oswald let out a sigh of relief as he lifted Jim and cradled him in his arms. Jim stirred, then came to, springing upright and looking about frantically for his target. Oswald reached out for his hand and Jim flinched, still not quite himself, still not discerning.

“It’s me, Jim,” Oswald said, his voice catching in his throat. “It’s me. It’s gone. Breathe…”

“Oh God,” Jim groaned, collapsing back on the floor next to Oswald as a marionette without its strings. He buried his face in his hands. “God, Oswald…”

“It’s okay, Jim,” he said, trying to stay calm, even though nothing was  _ okay. _ He reached for Jim again and this time he leaned into Oswald, grateful and exhausted. “It’s okay. Just breathe… We’re going to be ready next time.”

He will make sure of that.

 

 


	10. Melted

 

Jim treks through the wetlands, every step taking too much effort. It’s not like Everglades, surely, it’s something sinister, dark, alive in the wrong way. Jim almost feels its growth happening around him. It’s discouraging. It’s a manifestation of everything wrong, with him, with them, and it is too draining to even try to process it. Jim knows he must.

But he returns to a not so distant memory, where they hadn’t yet known that it’s begun to grow, that it’s been turning into this wedge. A day in Gotham, suddenly sunny and calm, and they ran into each other in the street and couldn’t separate. It was so good to see Oswald, with his eyes crinkling pleasantly, with his voice being so soft and tender. They’ve walked a whole block side by side, just enjoying each other’s presence, exchanging some small meaningless words that were warm and sweet.

The block ended in a small park, green, lush, very out of place in Gotham, like the sun, and for that even more precious. They both turned there even without talking about it, their legs brought them in that direction on their own. The vendor by the gates was selling ice cream. Jim bought two cones.

They sat on the bench, shoulders glued together, Oswald’s palm locked in Jim’s as they ate their ice cream, just plain vanilla, but for Jim it tasted like never before. Oswald said something, Jim replied, then turned his head, and Oswald’s eyes were so close, and his lips too, and Jim leaned in unthinkingly and kissed him. Oswald’s mouth was cold, and he made a surprised sound at the intrusion of Jim’s equally cold tongue which made Jim giggle. He hadn’t felt this happy and light since forever, and it didn’t matter that the ice cream melted in their hands, making them sticky and spurring Oswald into sacrificing his pretty pocket square with a laugh. Nothing mattered except that moment they’d shared.

How could that be lost to him now? He’s not going to leave it like that for sure, though, so he leans forward, bullheaded and determined, and forces himself to look forward. He will take this in. He will make it through. And then he’ll be by Oswald’s side again.

 

 


	11. Order

 

Everything in the potion depended on the right amounts of ingredients, added in the exact order. Red herb, powdered crystal, mint and saffron, a lump of coal. Cornflower petals. Quartz sand.

Oswald measured them up, weighed them, consulted the notes again. Everything seemed to be correct. Oswald lit the fire under the small cauldron and waited for the liquid to start boiling. It seemed so weird, to actually be going with this, to be doing something like this. He’d never thought much about this stuff before, after all, who needed potions when you only had to use your brains to outsmart opposition, your brains and maybe a little bit of suggestive firepower. Surely magic wasn’t his first weapon of choice.

Except now he had to face something much more difficult than his usual opposition, something that almost defied not only logic but understanding. Oswald wasn’t alone in this, true. It made it easier, but also a lot harder.

First the herb. Then crystal. Stir counterclockwise until it starts boiling again.

The old notes found in one of the Court of Owls’ abandoned hideouts proved to be useful. They dabbled too much in the mystical sort of thing and kept records of everything, and one of those hinted - just hinted - at the thing Oswald was faced with. But at least there was some initial research, and some methods of counterattack.

Rest of the herbs. Coal. Sand. The liquid thickened and changed colour, it had a bluish tint to it now and the smell was different too. Finally, the petals. Cornflower. Jim’s colour, Oswald smiled.

The potion had the colour of his eyes.

 

 


	12. Divine

 

Jim came home later than usual, much later, the cases piling up and demanding extra attention, and then Harvey finally brought in the suspect from the Delaney case and they had to interrogate him right away, and it went on way past midnight.

He didn’t expect the lights to be on, or that Oswald was still awake and waiting for him on the sofa, reading a book. Oswald raised his head at the sound of his footsteps and smiled.

“Welcome home.”

“You didn’t have to stay up for me,” Jim smiled back and leaned over to kiss him. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”

“It’s fine, Jim,” Oswald replied, putting the book aside and standing up. Jim couldn’t help but appreciate how he looked, soft in his flannel pyjamas, his hair a mess after shower, and his face so sweet. He circled his arms around Oswald’s waist, bringing him closer and inhaling his scent. Oswald smelled of warmth and hot chocolate, of home and acceptance, - all in all utterly divine.

“I love you,” Jim said, burying his face in the crook of Oswald’s neck. Coming home to this person would just never get old.

 

 


	13. Black Cat

 

After that first encounter Jim was extra wary while Oswald appeared more calm - but that was only in appearance. The nervous tension, present anyways, was heightened to eleven, was bursting through in unnecessary bouts of irritation and anger and Oswald felt that he ought to be grateful Jim only saw a small portion of those.

His tension also gave him an unusual clarity and focus that, while useful in his regular dealings, it was muddling up the more mundane things. It always felt as if something was lurking just out of his sight, there, but only visible in the corner of his eye or even not at all.

He returned home with a small bag of groceries, put them down on the kitchen counter, and tensed up seeing that thing, - there was that black thing again, too close, small again, but he was alone and  _ not ready. _ He felt cold wash over him, gripping his heart and stopping his breath. It stretched, got bigger, languid in its confidence of being capable of ending him…

Then Oswald blinked, the vision of fear dispelled. It was only a black cat, and it jumped off the windowsill to go about its business like it hadn’t just given him half a heart attack.

He gripped the edge of the counter and huffed a laugh bordering on hysterical. This was definitely getting to him.

Something would have to be done about it.

 

 


	14. Luck

 

It was a risk and Jim wasn’t shying away from it. He wasn’t a gambling person, but this was a risk he felt compelled to take. It was something that he decided on his own, all of his own volition, not pushed into it or pressured by something, or someone, else. He wanted it. He wanted all that came with it, even the undoubtedly bad things.

Jim couldn’t put his finger on it. Where, when did that start? Was it that quiet and dusty evening at the warehouse? Was it the time when they once again ended up working together? Or was it all growing stubbornly on since that fateful day on the Gotham pier, undeterred by any odds or frictions or fallouts?

But when he pitched the idea to Oswald, the whens and whys didn’t matter at all. He teased Jim about taking his time and making them both wait, but his eyes, his eyes told everything and if the words were contradictory sometimes, what did it matter? In the end, Oswald chose him back. That was the best lucky break Jim’s ever had. He wasn’t going to waste it.

 

 


	15. Vines

 

Jim stands in the middle of a vast hall. Dark, grey stones. A feeling of mist in the air, a dampness all around, oppressive and cold. Stairs, spiraling along the walls up and up and up. There’s something waiting for him up there, where the stairs end, where it’s dark and misty. He’s called there.

He climbs the stairs, the steps uneven and making it harder to keep good pace as they tilt this or that way, get wider, narrower, gritty, slippery, working against him and the call. Jim has to stop sometimes to rest, when it gets too hard and his knees start buckling. It would be so easy to stop completely, to turn back and abandon this strange quest. But the call is irresistible. It’s not nagging, not insistent, but it’s there, resonating with Jim’s core, with his whole being, thrumming inside with the beat of his heart and pulsing through his veins and quitting the climb is as likely as quitting to breathe.

Jim walks and walks, holding on to the wall for support. He’s so tired. So exhausted. The mist doesn’t clear the higher he climbs and the dampness clings to his skin. It’s cold, so cold, but he must go on. He has to. The top of the stairs is already within his sight.

When he finally stands at the top, feeling barely alive in the thin air, the mist clears. There’s something black hanging in the middle of the landing, a tangle of vines and thorns, a mad coiled tumbleweed, and the call that reverberates through Jim comes from there.

He approaches it slowly, trying to see what it is, what it hides. Then there’s a flash of pale face, and eyes that he yearns for lock with his.

“Jim!”

He doesn’t know how he makes it, but he’s there, pressing his hands to the thorny walls of the cage disregarding the pain and blood, because Oswald is right there in front of him, reaching for him as well, reaching desperately and the vines are so dense they only manage to brush their fingers together. The slight touch sends a jolt through them both.

Jim wakes up with a jerk, his breath heavy. The knife thrums at his side, open in its sheath and red with blood.

Blood trickles down Jim’s palm from the cuts on his fingers.

 

 


	16. Gathering

 

Both knew it was stupid. Both regretted it instantly the moment cutting words left their mouths. Both didn’t know how to deal with it.

It was so… childish. What did it matter that Jim was late? What did it matter that Oswald was impatient? What did it matter in the grand scheme of things, where they both longed for each other and wanted to spend every free minute together? And yet somehow they couldn’t stop. Oswald lashed out. Jim retorted. Oswald sneered. Jim barked an insult. It escalated. Grew out of proportion. It felt like the end of them.

But then they looked at each other, the fire in their eyes burning so hot, like always, and then they were in each other’s arms. Whispered apologies, frantic kisses, hurting words forgotten, forgotten for good. Only they mattered, only their wishes to continue on held any weight. Everything was good once again.

But the clouds had definitely begun gathering on their horizon.

 

 


	17. Lantern

 

No one could’ve seen it coming. Only later they’ve learned what ground zero had been - a small park, a hidden nook of nature in Gotham, almost out of place in that grim city. It became wetter. Like a rainforest. Like Everglades. They even suspected Ivy at the time, because, really, who else was so in tune with Gotham’s flora? But when she came to the park to see what was happening and why she was blamed, Ivy paled and ran.

When they finally caught up with her, brought her down for the interrogation, Ivy said that the thing in the park, the park itself, had nothing to do with plant life. It appeared natural, but it wasn’t that at all. It was sinister. Vile. Poisonous in a different way, the way that worked on your mind and drove you mad slowly. And it wasn’t the handiwork of any of the known Gotham criminal either. They were, probably for the first time in their lives, completely innocent of the disaster at hand.

Back then they couldn’t have known what was the reason. Couldn’t have guessed. Who could? It was something straight out of fantasy stories or fairytales.

Jim and Oswald only happened upon it by chance. They took one of their favourite routes that night, the evening stroll pleasant for a change, unmarred by business or personal matters. It was like old times. Quiet. Nice. The way they’d always wanted.

The park was overrun by some men in formal suits, handling all sorts of weird tech and monitors and walking along the trails. Jim and Oswald paused, exchanging puzzled glances. The men were unfamiliar to either of them. One of the men, a tall official-looking one, approached them and said that the main area of the park was off-limits due to the investigation. Jim began to bristle on reflex, having accustomed to being one of the main authorities in Gotham, but Oswald patted his arm softly, and Jim relaxed. He shook his head and veered them both to a side alley where they resumed their stroll in calm silence once again. Oswald felt unusually serene then, his arm through Jim’s, warm and steady like always.

They reached the Chinese pavilion and stopped there, admiring the red lanterns along the road and the way they added the exotic and festive touch to this corner of the park. Oswald looked at Jim, smiled a little at his concerned face, and leaned into him. It suddenly felt very chilly.

Then came the gust of wind, strong and sudden, and Jim held Oswald close as if afraid he might be torn from him, this stubborn softness of his once again making Oswald’s heart warm and melt.

Then the wind stopped and they were left alone, suddenly feeling as if there wasn’t anyone else except something lurking in the vicinity. The lanterns started to flicker and go out, the darkness crept closer, closer, and Jim tensed, and Oswald did too, tightening his hold on the dagger in his cane. The steps. There was the sound of steps, a quiet clicking of heels.

They stared at one of the men in suits coming up to them with a flashlight. It’s not safe here, he said, you’d better go home, he said.

And that time they listened.

 

 


	18. Host

 

The day was one of their best ones, when they didn’t have to rush, didn’t have to busy themselves with either the police or the crime business - and at this point, was there really much of a difference between the two? The only thing they had to busy themselves with was food and drink and rest.

Nothing hinted at anything unusual. Just another day, like many similar ones. Jim ended up in the kitchen, making some dinner, when he noticed something dirty in the corner of the kitchen. A spider, a big black one with disgusting spindly legs.

Jim frowned. Their kitchen has always been spotless and neat, not a cobweb in sight. Both he and Oswald disliked the dirt. But spiders Oswald really disliked, the sight of them just made him freeze and his skin crawl and Jim found that adorable and took care to shield him from such encounters. So this time too Jim snuck up on the spider and captured it with a cup, and went outside to release it in some rose bushes.

He returned to preparing food, but soon noticed the spider back there in the corner again. He sighed and took it out again, this time further away from the house.

The spider got back again. Jim was getting irritated, the stupid critter distracting him from making food and spending time with his boyfriend, and just how long did it intend to test Jim’s patience? After several more attempts Jim was thoroughly sick of seeing the spider in that corner and so he decided that if the critter was  _ that _ stubborn about it, it should face the consequences. Jim squashed it and flushed the remains down the toilet.

Then he could finally get busy with dinner again. Oswald came down to the kitchen eventually, helping him set the table and finish up with the sauce for the pasta, and then he walked to the sink to rinse the beater and froze in his spot.

“Jim?” he said, his voice a little bit tense. “There’s a big spider there.”

Jim looked, and there it was again. Same ugly spider, but… maybe bigger? And then it did get bigger and Oswald dropped the beater and gripped Jim’s hand, panicking.

The spider grew, bloating, hideous and terrible, and then as if a ripple went through it, it shook and was a spider no more. Instead, they stared at a rat.

It sat, shedding the remains of the spider shell, abandoning its host as it stared at Oswald and Jim with beady eyes. Then it snickered, a disgustingly  _ human _ sound, and disappeared in the shadows outside.

But it didn’t feel as if it left.

 

 


	19. Astronaut

 

If anyone asked Jim what was his favourite look on Oswald, he wouldn’t have been able to choose. He loved Oswald crisp and elegant in his formal suits. He loved him naked, exposed just for him to see. He loved him in pyjamas. In his own shirt, too big on Oswald even though they weren’t that differently built. Probably the secret was that he loved whatever look Oswald had at the moment Jim saw him.

So this, Jim thoroughly enjoying the way Oswald looked in a fluffy white robe, fresh out of bath, wasn’t surprising at all. At that moment it was definitely his favourite look. Oswald smiled at him, reaching out his hand to smooth out a wrinkle on Jim’s shirt, pat his chest through the fabric and make Jim’s heart race like crazy. It didn’t matter how often they touched, it was always exciting in a million different ways. Jim was always pulled towards Oswald, like a magnet, like a space body, like an astronaut lost in the vastness of space and spiralling into the black hole. It was inevitable. It was beautiful. Jim could never get enough.

He leaned in, inhaling Oswald’s fresh scent, nuzzling at his shoulder. The stray droplets of water from Oswald’s hair slid down his neck, alluring and inviting and Jim couldn’t help himself, he had to lick them off.

“Ah, Jim!” Oswald laughed lightly, “I’m already clean, you don’t have to!”

Jim raised his head and looked at him. Oswald, laughing, his eyes bright and sparkling like stars, like champagne, he was irresistible.

Yes. If anyone asked, that was Jim’s favourite look.

 

 


	20. Bleeding Hearts

 

“Was that so fucking difficult?!” Jim lashed out. He felt as if he couldn’t get through to Oswald no matter what he said. He felt like nothing mattered anymore. Oswald just watched him, those piercing eyes of his suddenly wary and mistrustful, and Jim just couldn’t take it. It looked too much like fear.

Oswald never feared him. Never. He gave back as good as he got, so this, this humiliating feeling of being the one in the wrong - when Jim did  _ nothing _ wrong! - was torture. And he couldn’t take it. Because what hope was there for them, when his loved one feared him? What could there possibly be?

Jim let out an irritated sigh and turned on his heels, stomping away, from this stupid situation, from this feeling of inferiority and hurt, from Oswald.

He hoped to hear his name. He hoped to hear Oswald say  _ something  _ to him. Instead, he only heard disappointed silence lasting until he left the room.

It wasn’t their first fight. Recently it became so much more difficult to get along. It felt like a wall between them, solid and unbreacheable, and it only grew bigger with each day. Jim felt so hurt. Always hurt, always angry for some reason. He couldn’t understand why.

Jim wanted so much for something to change, but it felt as if he was the only one making an effort, and nothing helped, and Jim felt a strange feebleness, powerlessness even. It was unpleasant to say the least. So Jim ended up seeing Oswald less and less, attempting to escape it.

They hardly talked too, grieving the loss of their once so perfect union, and let their hearts bleed without doing anything about it. But maybe, Jim thought, maybe it was just him bleeding. Maybe Oswald didn’t care.

And that made Jim  _ so _ angry.

 

 


	21. Nightmares

 

It was another night, too much like their recent ones, when they barely acknowledged each other despite being in the same room, in the same bed. It didn’t feel like anything anymore - they were little more than strangers at that point.

Oswald longed for something, a touch, a soft word. Something that hinted they still had a chance. That it was worth it to keep fighting. That Jim  _ cared. _ Because he felt so inexplicably and utterly alone lately, even more alone when they were together than when Oswald was by himself. The nights were especially lonesome. Jim might as well have been an enemy, something terrifying, something empty, and his presence in their bed felt both like a wound and a cold hollowness. Torture.

Their hands were so close under the blanket, Oswald aware of it more than ever. Just an inch between them. Just a bit of space.

They’ve always slept entwined before, in each other’s arms, touching wherever possible. Oswald yearned for that closeness again, every night. But if this goes on, he… Would sleeping separately help? Would it drive this wedge between them deeper?

Oswald moved his hand slightly, pretending for his own sake that it was uncomfortable. Closer. But it didn’t make it more comfortable, so he had to move it again, and oh, there was Jim’s hand right against his, warm, soft, his most favourite in the whole world, the most loved, the most longed for… Oswald revelled in this stolen touch for all ten seconds it lasted and then Jim stirred, moving away, and Oswald suddenly felt as if he was suffocating.

No. This couldn’t go on much longer. He had to get out of the bed that was no longer theirs, had to get away from this still beloved stranger. Had to.

Jim stirred again as Oswald started to get up. He whimpered, catching his attention, and made Oswald look. Jim’s face was contorted, a grimace of pain and fear, and a soft whimper left his lips again. Almost like a cry. Oswald inched closer, leaning over Jim. He was saying something… Oswald feared he might hear someone else’s name. He knew there was no one else, both in his heart and his mind, because… he just knew it, okay? That still didn’t dispel the fear.

Jim suddenly tensed up, his whole body going taut, and he let out a hurt sound that went straight to Oswald’s heart. He crawled closer and shook Jim, trying to wake him up. Sure, they didn’t  _ touch _ that often lately, sure, it almost felt as if it could be unwelcome, but Oswald couldn’t leave Jim to suffer, even from nightmares.

“Ughhh…”

“Jim,” Oswald called softly. “Jim, wake up. You’re having a bad dream. Wake up…”

He shook him again, firmer, and this time Jim jerked and opened his eyes. He blinked a couple times and then sat upright, holding Oswald close and pressing him to his chest so tight, so tight.

“Oh God, Oswald,” he uttered, rocking them both slightly. “Oswald…”

Jim’s hands were the same as always, so firm and soft, they shivered slightly, but he held on to Oswald like he yearned for him to. Maybe… just maybe... 

“It’s okay, Jim,” Oswald murmured, trying his best to swallow the unwanted lump in his throat as he gingerly wrapped his arms around Jim in turn. “It was just a nightmare. Just a bad dream.”

 

 


	22. Monster Inside

 

It didn’t stop. It grew, crawling over the pavements, the roads, the buildings, transforming them into something else, something out of this world. The streets became wet with sludge and reeds grew along the pavements. The weird zone kept expanding until it consumed Gotham whole.

It transformed the people too. Some were now a part of the landscape, melted into the trees and bushes and grasses. Several were transformed into something else, and you couldn’t know anymore. The few unchanged ones fled to the center of the city where it still looked like the city they knew. There was nothing else to do, because this growth never responded to anything. You couldn’t burn it away. Couldn’t poison it. Couldn’t cut it. No human force applied could put a stop to it.

That’s when Oswald, ever the attentive one, took notes of the Court and their mystic dealings. It had to be something like that, if all other options failed. And when he tried one of the mentioned potions, it did help. It made the growth shrink. But it was only a half-measure, not a permanent solution.

Because the core of the problem hid in the human heart, it seemed, a heart in anguish that hurt so much it bled into the realm of physical matter. It was a hurt that bred monsters that hid inside men, that gnawed at them and made them lash out at the world. There was only one instance mentioned in the book of the Court, and it was a failure record.

But it gave Oswald enough information to continue the research and the findings were surprising. The monster indeed hid inside.

It was closer than he could have thought too.

 

 


	23. Scythe

 

He wasn’t telling him anything. He went about his business, quietly but irrevocably preoccupied, and keeping secrets from Jim. That silence felt more offensive than-- Jim couldn’t even decide. It felt like Oswald didn’t care, not for their positions, not for their feelings. Jim couldn’t wrap his head around it, because if anything has ever been a threat to them, it was Jim’s stubbornness, his rigidity. Not Oswald’s silences.

But now he stood there in that black suit of his, somber like a grim reaper that came to harvest Jim’s soul with the scythe of his indifference. Jim exploded, shouting at him, and at first it even made sense and Jim’s arguments were based on something, but they quickly dissolved into the mess of hurt feelings and bad judgements and Jim even felt he’d gone way overboard, but he was unable to stop and he went on and on until Oswald sighed, his posture ruined with sagged shoulders and his face was so damn unreadable and closed off Jim was unsure he even listened to him.

“I’m very sorry you feel this way, Jim,” he said in a quiet and too damn controlled voice. Was he even  _ feeling _ anything at this point? “But I am, frankly, not ready to respond to you in an appropriate manner. Could we talk about it in the morning?”

And Jim spat something cutting back and stormed off, seething. He didn’t even care if they talked in the morning or not.

But they did. It wasn’t easy, with Jim’s temper flaring up again the more Oswald tried to keep his own cool, and only when Jim saw Oswald’s lips trembling slightly and his eyes getting that haunted look that the weight of what he had been doing finally sinked in. He stopped mid-word, abruptly, reaching his hand out and stopping, afraid it would be unwelcome.

“Oswald,” he said, a terrible lump in his throat making it difficult. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been such an asshole and I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

And then he waited with bated breath, hoping he didn’t manage to ruin it between them for good.

 

 


	24. Long Fingers

 

“Can you come here for a bit?” Oswald called and Jim stood up from the couch and walked up to him.

“What is it?” he asked, looking at the book Oswald was reading. “More mystic stuff?”

“Yes, Jim, but this, I think, will solve the problem - and permanently, I hope. But…”

Jim didn’t like that one bit. “But?”

“The solution is rather… gruesome.”

And then Oswald told Jim exactly how gruesome it was and what it entailed, and Jim’s blood froze in his veins. That couldn’t have been happening. That couldn’t have been the only way to fix it. Anything but that!

“Jim, I’m sure that--”

Oswald didn’t finish that sentence, since Jim grabbed him and held him to his chest, arms wound tight around him. Why have they been wasting time? Why couldn’t they have just…

“Jim?”

Jim leaned in and kissed him, quelling the explanations and suggestions before they flowed. He knew in his heart of hearts, knew deeper than that even, that Oswald was telling the truth. Didn’t matter. They could have at least this. At least tonight they could put it out of their heads. Jim continued to kiss him every time Oswald tried to speak, earning an annoyed laugh and a kiss back, and he relaxed a little. He covered him in touches and more kisses, entwining Oswald’s long pale fingers with his own as he pulled them both towards that couch. At least they could still have tonight for themselves. Everything else would have to wait until tomorrow.

 

 


	25. Spirits

 

Jim is getting closer, he can feel it. He can’t see it through the trees and the vines, but it’s not necessary. The heart of the zone, the place where that thing is, he’s guided to it now as sure as by a compass. The feeling of dread is settling deeper and deeper in his heart. Soon - soon it will be a time to solve this once and for all. Soon he will have to do what he doesn’t want to do. The knife keeps thrumming at his hip, as if sensing his doubts. Jim is both unnerved and reassured by its presence and its reaction.

The goat is still following him too. It’s keeping closer to Jim, looking around nervously and bleating from time to time. It’s only when the sun starts setting down Jim finally sees what makes the animal so nervous. There are figures everywhere around them, some barely visible, some more defined, a flock of ghosts or spirits. They all watch them. They all look at them with those transparent eyes and it makes Jim shiver. He picks up his pace.

The more he walks, the more of them he sees. They don’t do anything, don’t try to approach or hinder him, they’re just… there. And some follow him. Jim can’t recognize their faces, but they somehow seem familiar to him. It’s unnerving.

When he finally steps through the gates, the streets are filled with them. The streets themselves, the stones and walls of them seem alive with the spirits gathered there like a mass of jellyfish. They part for Jim and his companions. They follow behind, soundless but oppressing presence.

The spirits only leave Jim alone when he reaches the castle.

 

 


	26. Ash

 

It consumed almost all of Gotham and it visited them all too often, each time bigger and blacker and disgustingly more human. The blackness wasn’t its outward characteristic, too, it wasn’t black when it was a rat or a dog. It was some random colour, something grey or dull brown, and when it grew to a size of a child it was only a shape. Yet the blackness and darkness oozed out of it like a suffocating aura, like smoke, invisible to the eye but  _ felt _ with your soul. A terrible, misplaced thing, with no right to belong to this reality - or any reality at all.

The worst came when it reached its full form, because then it began speaking so much clearer. So much better. So much worse.

Its appearance shifted between both of theirs and Jim gripped Oswald’s hand as tight as he could, because seeing that beloved face of his contorted with an evil sneer, spitting out vile words accusing him of so much, of things he knew were true - it was too real and too terrible. Oswald paled and held on to Jim’s hand as the thing spoke, and then it shifted to Jim’s form and voice, and spoke again. It spilled all of the dark intrusive thoughts Jim had or Oswald thought Jim had, it spoke them out loud and the words couldn’t be taken back. Each was a cut. A hit of the hammer driving the wedge between them deeper and deeper.

They both tried protesting - out of context the words sounded even worse. They tried to say they didn’t mean it like  _ that. _ It didn’t really matter. The coldness seeped into their hearts regardless. Their hands felt uneasy and clammy in each other’s grasp, on the verge of breaking away.

“I’ll get you,” the thing said, its voice an amalgamation of both of theirs. “Together or separately, but I will. Just you wait,” and then it laughed and dissolved into ash that dissipated into thin air. They both still felt cold and unsettled, their hearts beating wildly.

But they never let go of each other’s hands.

 

 


	27. Runes

 

The ‘king’ stands in front of Jim, sneering, its face is a continuous flux of Oswald’s and Jim’s and this makes Jim nauseous even before it starts talking.

“Now you. You two just couldn’t agree till the end,” it says, finally settling on Jim’s face. Does he always have this annoying smirk, that sullen frown? How does Oswald tolerate that? Jim cringes.

“You could’ve come to me together, you know?” it continues, changing its voice to Jim’s as well, an utterly annoying and ugly mirror. “Stayed together longer. But that just wasn’t for you, huh? You just had to mistrust him, had to let him go! And that’s why…” it grins wide in sadistic delight. “I’ve won.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jim says. The knife stays silent, but the flask with the potion sings to him, hums in his hand as he takes it out, glowing electric blue, knowing that the time has come.

The thing scowls and lunges at him, Jim jumps out of the way and throws the potion flask at it. It explodes on contact, the potion splashing all over the thing and forming runes over its limbs. And yet, instead of being immobilized, it still moves, surging forward and landing a blow on Jim’s chest. Jim falls, hitting his head hard on the floor and his vision spins, and he sees his face in front of him, contorted with rage and disgust and that sneer again, and the thing’s hands wrap around his throat.

“You only had to listen!” it growls in Jim’s face. “You only had to be there! But you always undermine things important to you, don’t you, Jim? You always ruin  _ everything,  _ and this is on you… you ruined it for both of you!”

Jim kicks at the thing desperately, trying to pry its cold hands off to no avail, and then there’s a loud thump and it’s thrown off him. The goat rams it once more for good measure and bleats, annoyed.

“Yeah, yeah…” Jim coughs and reaches for the second flask, standing up again. He drinks the potion, its blue blood mingling with his and forming runes on his skin as well. It feels electric. It feels light. It feels as if Oswald is right there with him.

Jim lunges forward and punches the vile thing in his own face, wiping off that smug expression. The blue light seeps out of him and into the thing with every punch, oversaturating it, overloading it, weighing it down, and then, finally, one last punch and the last flicker of light leaves Jim and the thing bloats blue and implodes with a loud pop.

Jim laughs out loud. Such an underwhelming end. Fitting, really, for someone with his face, for someone, who was, essentially, him.

Because it still spoke the truth. Jim is a disappointment, and everything that’s happened was on him.

 

 


	28. Headless

 

They couldn’t mend the rift between them overnight, or even over several nights. The wedge was in place, the damage was done and the only way to improve was to let them both heal. It couldn’t be easy. They tried to speak about the things that were bothering them in their relationship and it was both hurting and cathartic. They still couldn’t fully open up, and was it any surprise with the way they’ve been treated before? It still amazed Jim that Oswald kept trusting him despite all that. It still amazed Oswald that Jim kept trying his best to make it all work.

But painful as the process was, they couldn’t quite get on to work through it because of the strange and bizarre things happening in Gotham. It was slow, but steady, and those men in black suits were useless and had no information. Homeland security, they said they were, but Oswald found out they were actually some forgotten branch of the Court of Owls, and still they were useless, running around like a bunch of headless chickens with their pointless tests and attempts of containing the contaminated zone. Their presence did, however, point Oswald in the right direction, and, really, was it any surprise that saving Gotham was once again his task, his and Jim’s?

They’ve been pulling this city up from the very beginning.

 

 


	29. Bones

 

Climbing the stairs towards the cage is so familiar. He remembers which steps were bent which way, he remembers how much the climb took and paces himself accordingly. It’s still not quite over. Only halfway done.

The goat stayed downstairs and so Jim is alone in this on his way up. He takes a tally of everything important. The key, still on a string around his neck, miraculously not lost. He remembers Oswald using some weird ritual for conjuring it, bringing it into reality out of things they’ve shared. It truly is one of a kind - with a singular use and purpose.

In the dream Jim’s had he was plagued by doubts, the coldness of the indifference seeping into his very bones, telling him to stop. What’s the use? He’d just ruin it again.

That may be true. That may be his, their future. But Jim would be a fool if he abandons hope here, and he would be a complete scum if he abandons Oswald. Doubts have no place in his heart now, here. This is the final stretch and coldness has no place here either. Jim’s heart is burning. Soon, soon he will see Oswald again. Soon - they will be together again. He hears his name being called, called, called, his whole being pulled towards the voice even though he knows better and the knife stays silent at his hip.

He finally makes it to the top. There is no mist here, the cage clearly visible, and the darkness billowing inside is there and calling for Jim, louder, louder, echoing and resonating through him.

Jim tears the key off his neck in a hurry and opens the cage, stepping inside, his hands clammy as the moment of truth grows closer. The darkness envelops him, caressing, so warm and so sweet, and it’s Oswald again, in his arms, smiling at Jim with so much emotion it makes breath catch in Jim’s throat.

“Jim, love,” he says softly as he leans into him and reaches for his lips. “I knew you’d come, I knew--”

“I did,” says Jim as he whips the knife out of its sheath and plunges it deep into Oswald’s heart.

 

 


	30. Witch

 

“I don’t like this, Oswald,” Jim said, his voice trembling. “Can’t there be another way?  _ Anything  _ else?”

“No, Jim,” he shook his head. “I tried looking it up, because I’m not thrilled about this either, but it really seems to be the only way.”

“Let me do it at least,” Jim grasped his hand desperately. “I’d rather it was me.”

“Jim, love,” Oswald said with tenderness, “I don’t want it to be either of us, but if we consider it carefully, you have the best chance. I might not make the trek to it after, when it gains more power through that… act, and I’d much rather leave the physical parts to you and deal with what comes easier to me.”

Jim looked at him, thoughts and arguments battling in his mind, but then he nodded.

“Alright,” he said, not quite agreeing in his heart but conceding the point. “Magic does seem to be your forte.”

“Who’d have thought I’d become a witch,” Oswald scoffed. “Or warlock, whatever. Must be that warp in the reality affecting us both.”

“Well, you were always magical to me,” Jim smiled and leaned in to nuzzle his neck.

“Flatterer,” Oswald scolded him affectionately, running his fingers through Jim’s hair. “Were you like this before we’ve met?”

“No, that’s definitely a recent development,” Jim trailed kisses along Oswald’s neck. “But I mean it, you know?”

“Yes,” he let out a little sigh. “I do…”

They made love, trying their best not to think of it as the last time. It wouldn’t be the last. They’ll touch each other like that again, they will connect like that again - just, you know, deal with the problem at hand first. They were always involved in this love triangle with Gotham and she was a demanding and jealous lover, yet they couldn’t abandon her even if they wanted to. She was theirs, always, and vice versa.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way,” Oswald said after, when they were lounging in their bed and he drew patterns on Jim’s chest with his finger. “You remember it, alright? I will not be there. I will not be sitting on a throne or kept in a cage. I will be with you.”

“I know,” Jim said, gulping. “I just wish it wasn’t that knife. It’s vile, Oswald. I don’t want it anywhere near you.”

Another legacy from the Court, another piece of something impossible to understand, and yet it was their best chance. It made Jim’s skin crawl, because the knife was alive and with a will of its own.

“It’s only temporary. And I’m sure I can subdue it too once I’m there.”

“I don’t doubt it… I just…”

“Fear?”

“Yeah.” He held Oswald close. “What if we can’t go back?”

“I would still be with you,” Oswald murmured, listening to Jim’s heartbeat as he settled his head over Jim’s chest this time. “And I will do anything in my power to come back to you. But for that I would need you to do it.” The hold over his shoulders tightened. “Say it, Jim.”

“I…”

“Say it.”

“I would have to kill you.”

 

 


	31. Pumpkin

 

Jim expected blood to flow, but instead there’s nothing of the sort. The darkness that enveloped him before starts seeping into the knife, the form of Oswald in front of him wavering - a weird shift, something that can’t quite be understood, passes through both of them, and then Oswald is next to him, holding that knife with Jim’s hand, and driving it into the heart of darkness that wears his face. He smirks at Jim and Jim grins back. Oswald did subdue the knife as he claimed he would.

“You’re such a liar,” the darkness hisses, staring right at Oswald. “Always lying, always keeping secrets, always wearing a mask. No wonder no one knows the real you. No one even cares for the real you!”

“Now, my dear,” Oswald looks at the darkness, straight into his own eyes, “that is such a silly lie.”

And he pushes the knife in even deeper; strange runes form all over Oswald’s hand and run over Jim’s fingers with an electric white shiver, onto the blade and inside the dark thing, disappearing one after another, and then there’s a shudder that Jim feels reverberating through all three of them, and then the darkness shrieks and implodes.

“Quick, Jim, now!” Oswald commands, and Jim grips the knife firmer and drives it into the stones under them, shattering the blade. The pieces of steel - or was it even steel? - melt and evaporate, like mercury, and then there’s nothing left reminding them of what has been. Jim raises his eyes from it, straightening up, and Oswald is in front of him, this time for real, this time for good, and even though they looked the same he would never have mistaken Oswald for his shadow. No one else looks at Jim quite the way  _ he  _ does, after all.

Oswald reaches out for Jim’s hand, squeezing it softly, as the reality around them ripples and shivers.

“We have to get back down,” Oswald says. “Who knows what is or isn’t here when it… goes.”

“Right,” Jim nods, and they rush downstairs, with Jim supporting Oswald on the steps as they begin to dissolve into thin air behind them, and he ends up hoisting Oswald up and carrying him over the last few flights, and they hit solid ground as the reality ripples around them once more, a sort of sigh echoing through the air, and after that - they’re in the park again, the bright autumn leaves rustling around them, the lake glimmering in the dimming light, and some passers-by walking in the distance. Like whatever they’ve been through, whatever they’ve experienced just mere moments ago - like it wasn’t real.

Jim watches Oswald snap his fingers once, twice, to no effect but the sound, and then Oswald raises his face and smiles radiantly at Jim.

“It’s gone,” he says, relieved. “No magic in me anymore.”

“You’re still magical to me,” Jim murmurs, pulling him closer for a kiss. He’s missed that. He’s missed that so much, and he kisses Oswald, his Oswald, his forever Oswald through his laughter and his smiles and then Oswald kisses him back and--

“I can’t believe you two! Necking here like nothing’s happened!”

They separate and watch Harvey approach them, huffing in indignation.

“You two fuckers have made me a goddamn _goat!_ _A goat!_ Just how, pray tell, are you going to make up for that?!” he stops in front of them, looking at them both in agitation. Oswald snorts. “What’s that, Penguin?”

“You’re lucky you weren’t turned into a pumpkin! Someone might have eaten you then, Detective Bullock,” Oswald says, his face a perfect expression of concern, and Jim can’t help bursting out with laughter.

“So sorry, Harv,” he says, trying to calm down. “We won’t do it again?”

“I hope not!” Harvey jabs his finger at them. “Now, I’m not sure what has gone on here and I really don’t wanna know, but,” he jabs his finger at them again, “if I’m not the best man for either - or both of you, I don’t care how you manage that! - I’m not speaking to either of you again. Ever!” He looks at them both, making sure his words had the desired effect, and nods. “So don’t wait long sending out those invites.”

Harvey turns and stomps away then, and Oswald leans into Jim again, embracing him, and Jim hears him chuckle as he wraps his arms around Oswald in turn.

“What is it?”

“Jim, I know he’s your friend and everything, and mine too, I guess, now, but… But when he’s annoyed like that he does sound a little bit like a goat!” and Oswald begins laughing again, and maybe it’s a bit hysterical, but who is Jim to judge? After all they’ve been through…

“Well,” Jim says, kissing Oswald’s temple, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow! Thanks for staying with this till the end! I hope you found it enjoyable :)
> 
> As always, any feedback is greatly appreciated ♡  
> You can hit me up on [tumblr](http://lalaurelia.tumblr.com/) too, if you wanna.
> 
>  
> 
> The "shadows" in the title are a reference to the psychological unconscious dark side, and this was influenced, as I realize in hindsight, by my favourite game series. A shadow indeed XD


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